1
The Taromenanes tribe is what anthropologists call an uncontacted tribe. Which means very few people can vouch for their existence. And they don't have cable.
I can confirm for scientists that they do indeed exist here in the rainforest on the right hand side of Ecuador and, as of yesterday, so do I.
Just don't tell the coppers.
I arrived last night through the help of some very slippery characters, myself included. I told the head man of the tribe that I'm a fugitive from the law who wants no contact with the outside world. He replied, in the indigenous language, something on the order of "Our societal framework is that of a self-governing collective." I took it as "Sure, whatever."
I always thought I would be in jail or dead when the Red John showdown was over. I don't know what'll become of me. I'm worried about Teresa. I hope she's not paying the price for what I've done.
It's morning. The very comely Yuhupde, the chief's daughter (what else?), brings me a sarong type garment. Though I don't feel one-hundred percent about the snakes and insects having free access to my nether regions, it seems to make the Taromenanes more comfortable with me.
I come out of the hut they've provided and sit on a hollow log and do some magic tricks for the kids. To them, everything is magic. I actually don't have to do much of anything. The mere existence of buttons is magic. Same goes for my handkerchief. My hair.
The kids are fascinated with my hair. Yuhupde's fascinated with my hair. Yuhupde brings me something to drink in a hollow coconut shell. All the Taromenanes seem very much into my hair.
2
Whoa. I just dodged a bullet there.
At the last moment I realized what the Taromenanes charge for room and board. How do I put this?
If my mentalist antennae weren't open for business, I might have drunk what was in the coconut. And woken up the next morning, sarong awry, very sticky and very sore. I believe a blond strand would have been added to the local DNA.
I have to get out of here. And drink only bottled water.